


Castles

by Konstantya



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Angst, F/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Sequel, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-20
Updated: 2012-07-20
Packaged: 2018-03-13 11:55:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3380576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Konstantya/pseuds/Konstantya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Lore and Ishara have a Bad Romance.  (Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3380303">Built Upon Sand</a>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Castles

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published (on FF.net, DW, and LJ) on July 20, 2012. Cross-posted here on February 17, 2015.
> 
> In case it wasn't obvious from the summary, the tag warnings, or even the original fic, this fic features a relationship that is in no way, shape, or form healthy, and even dips into physical violence at times.

 

The Roostertail was a bar on Kalos Prime. It was trendy and sophisticated, stylistically something of a throw-back to the Terran Art Deco movement, though not to the letter: The interior was very black and silver and…round. Round stools, round tables, round windows, a round bar, even a round bartender.

Said bartender was a Bolian, and was currently placing a drink down in front of her. It was blue and green and very tangy, and her companion handed over a slip of latinum before turning his attention back around.

"So what's a pretty human like you doing—"

"—in a place like this?" she finished.

He grinned then, more than a little rakishly. "I guess you get that line a lot."

She didn't, but she still smiled sardonically at him.

Jurek Vikendi was a Farian. Charismatic and rather handsome, even by human standards. He was also a bookie with a penchant for using the Bank of Bolias.

"I came for the races," she finally said, after an indulgent sip of her drink.

His eyebrows lifted, his ridge crinkled, and there was that grin again. "You gamble?"

She pressed her lips together, trying to suppress her guilty smile. It didn't quite work. "…A little. I truly do enjoy the sport, though," she added, and with that, the conversation soon became an in-depth discussion.

Jurek had a lot to say on the subject of vorlap racing. The hour wore on, and their drinks turned to empty glasses, and eventually, after reluctantly checking the time, she admitted, "I really should be getting back to my hotel."

"Oh? Where are you staying?"

"The Arcadia."

"That's not too far," he said. "Mind if I walk you there?"

She thought about this and smiled. "Why not?"

It was a short walk, not even a kilometer, and the night was warm, so she draped her scarf over her arm. They chatted amiably until reaching the hotel—and then she turned toward him, wrapped her arms around his neck, rose up on tip-toe, and pressed her lips passionately against his. His hands settled on her hips, drawing her closer, and her own hands slid down his chest, into his jacket and around his waist, up to his shoulders, palms splayed against the musculature of his back, bodies intimately pressed together.

"Thanks for the drink," she murmured huskily, breaking the kiss. And then she withdrew from him and turned to go inside.

"Well…hey!" he called, and she could hear the expectant grin in his voice. "Will I see you at the tracks tomorrow?"

At the door, she threw a coquettish smile over her shoulder and simply said, "Maybe." And then she disappeared inside.

Approximately one minute later saw her exit from the back of the building. She strode down the alley, and though it wasn't entirely unexpected, she still gasped when a hand grabbed her arm and dragged her into the shadows.

"Took you long enough," Lore grumbled.

Ishara just barely managed to restrain herself from rolling her eyes. "If you have such a problem with my 'operating speed,' then why didn't _you_ steal the damn data rod?"

"Because I'm a little more _conspicuous_ than you," he snapped, his white-gold skin, and the fact that it practically glowed in the dark of the alley, proof enough of the truth of that statement.

She pulled the stolen rod out from under her scarf and slapped it into his hand. "Whatever. Can we get out of here? These shoes are killing me."

He rolled his own eyes, then—no doubt at the limitations of her pathetic human body—but flipped his thumb-nail back all the same. And the next moment, they were lost in the shimmer of the transporter.

Immediately after rematerializing on his ship, she ripped off the offending shoes. They were fashionable, uncomfortable things that matched her fashionable, uncomfortable cocktail dress, and she was half-tempted to rip that off right then and there, too. Honestly, did he have any idea how irritating such a get-up was? To say nothing of having to flirt and play coy half the night. The least he could do was not act like a _complete_ ass. She frowned and rubbed the back of one heel.

"Was that really necessary?" he suddenly demanded, seemingly out of nowhere, and her foot hit the floor with an exasperated smack.

"Was _what_ necessary?"

"Kissing him." She could practically _hear_ the way his mouth twisted at the word, as if it actually tasted bad, and this time she couldn't help it; her eyes arced towards the ceiling. Him and his organic hang-ups.

"It worked, didn't it?" she demanded in turn. "I don't see what the big deal is." Sometimes, like now, he could be utterly insufferable, and she turned to stomp off in the general direction of her cabin when he grabbed her arm and whirled her back around. He seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but instead he ended up just staring at her, his gaze hard. She stared right back, all too aware of how close they stood, of how tightly he gripped her wrist, how easily he could break it. His eyes flicked between hers, down to her mouth and then back up—but then he sneered, brushed by her as if she was some insect he was swatting away, and headed for the cockpit. She watched him go, slowly letting out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

It was always like this. Always a little off-balance. As if they were teetering on the edge of some great precipice, always a hair's-breadth away from tumbling over.

Sometimes she wondered what lay at the bottom of that particular cliff. If the fall would be so bad…

She was tempted to characterize his behavior as that of a jealous lover—except that clashed with the thinly-veiled contempt he seemed to hold for all organic humanoids, her included. Well, and then there was the fact that they weren't lovers. They'd shared two kisses—two brief, reckless kisses—before leaving Turkana IV, but that was as close as they'd come to any sort of romantic or sexual relationship. And while he was clearly capable of over-powering her and forcing her in that respect if he so desired, he hadn't yet. Which was another discrepancy, if one were to go with the jealous lover theory, because he came off as the type of person who did whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. If the urge was there, why not act on it?

Were androids even capable of sexual desire? Data had seemed to have all the sexual desire of a block of wood, but for all their physical similarities, it was plain to see that Lore was not very much like Data. Lore was, well, far more _human_. Almost unnervingly so, at times. The way he moved, the way he talked, the way he emoted—and that was perhaps the most unnerving aspect of all. He _felt_. And unlike Data, whose emotions—if he even had any—were distant and disconnected, Lore's emotions were bright and bare. Always bubbling right under the surface, it seemed. And when combined with a violent temperament and a mercurial personality, well…it didn't make for an easy atmosphere, to say the least.

It was going on four months, and Ishara had to admit that the constant tight-rope act they seemed to be engaged in was beginning to wear on her.

 

\---

 

She hadn't expected him to kiss her back. Truth be told, she wasn't sure _what_ she'd expected, in those anxious moments before leaving the colony. Maybe she'd expected him to kill her, and maybe a part of her had even hoped he would, because for an instant there, the thought of returning to her life in the Coalition had truly seemed a fate worse than death.

Strange, how such a short encounter with the _Enterprise_ could still haunt her so much, even after all this time…

But that was neither here nor there, because almost as impetuously as she'd grabbed his cheeks and pressed her mouth against his a moment earlier, he ducked his head and repeated the act, his lips twitching curiously, as if he was trying to process the experience and needed more data to do so. But then he suddenly tore his mouth away from hers, gave her an appraising look up and down, and dismissively pushed past her.

"Stay out of the way," was all he deigned to say, a dark warning thrown over his shoulder, before he disappeared down the corridor.

She stared after him, heart pounding in utter disbelief at the fact that she not only wasn't dead, but had actually been allowed to stay. She stood there, staring into now-empty space, for more than a couple minutes—until the engines flared to life, and the floor shook, and she had to grab the railing to keep her balance.

It was one thing to be transported off the planet to a ship. Quite another to actually leave the planet _via_ a ship, to hurtle through the dust and atmosphere and everything. She clung to the railing, less out of shock and more for her own safety, until the shuddering of the vessel evened out to a low rumble, and she could only assume they were clear of the planet and out in the vacuum of space.

She'd left. She was really gone. She almost couldn't believe it.

Life on the colony had forced her to grow up practical and pragmatic, and she didn't waste much time mulling over the implications of what she'd just done. This, this ship, belonging to a temperamental android, was the closest thing she had to a home now; she figured she'd better familiarize herself with it.

Remembering his warning, she didn't try to seek him out. Didn't even touch any screens or consoles, not even for information about where they might be headed. Instead she gave herself a tour, tip-toeing around with careful curiosity.

It was small and crude, an amalgamation of different parts and technologies (Pakled, she later found out), and looked as if it had originally been intended for trade. There was a cargo bay, holding some spare parts and little else; a kitchen and mess, devoid of any food, but equipped with a replicator; one washroom with a water shower; crews' quarters; the engine room, obviously; what she had to assume was the cockpit, though she didn't risk checking to make sure; and at the end of one corridor, an airlock, with a window affording a small view of space.

She stood there, watching the stars flit by, reminding herself over and over again that it was actually _she_ who was flitting by, until her legs grew tired, and she slid down to the floor. The events and stress of the day had finally caught up to her, and as she had so often done as a child, she curled up in the corner, arms wrapped around her shins and chin propped on her knees.

She fell asleep, watching the stars and wondering if her sister had done the same thing when _she'd_ left.

 

\---

 

When she woke, it was abruptly, pulse racing, body tensing, fist swinging—and then something caught her hand, and she found herself staring at a pair of too-close yellow eyes.

"You're quite the light sleeper," Lore observed. Despite the words, he didn't seem very impressed.

She jerked her head back. "How long have you been watching me?"

"There are beds, you know," he said dryly, promptly ignoring her question. "Unless, of course, you _did_ know that, and your body was too weak and fragile to carry you to one."

There it was again—the not-so-subtle dig at her organic nature.

Incensed and still wary of him, she wrenched her arm away—all the more put off by the knowledge that she was only able to do so because he was well and ready to let her go—and clambered to her feet. Her eye caught on the window, specifically on the stationary stars outside of it, and her irritation suddenly fled to make room for anxious curiosity. "Where are we?" It came out almost hushed, and in addition to how long he'd been watching her, she was now wondering just how long she'd been asleep.

Languidly, Lore rose from where he'd been crouched on the floor. "…In orbit around Dima III," he relinquished, and at the sound of his voice, she whipped her head back around. He stood closer than she liked, effectively cornering her at the end of the airlock, and for a split second, she worried that he might simply blow her out of it. She veritably hated how cagey he made her feel, and hated all the more the fact that he was probably doing it on purpose.

His eyes shifted from the window down to her. "Though your little cadre—or should I say, _former_ cadre," he went on, giving her a tight smirk, "—was kind enough to provide me with a driver coil to fix my engines, that landing damaged my flight stabilizers beyond repair. I need to put in for some new components."

She blinked at the information. So maybe that was why the ship was rumbling so. She'd only been on one other starship before, and considering how much more sophisticated the _Enterprise_ had been, she hadn't given much thought to the differences, but she supposed it made sense.

Lore raised a dry eyebrow, perhaps at her expression, and added, "You may want to find something to hang onto."

 

\---

 

Dima III was a busy, bustling place. At least, the port city of Dubatta was. Despite her ingrained caution after a lifetime on Turkana IV, it was difficult to not find all the sights and sounds distracting in their foreignness.

Take the market for instance. The _market_. She didn't think she'd ever seen so much food in one place before. And flowers and crafts and even street entertainers. She wished she could have found a rooftop to squat upon just so she could _watch_ everything, but as it was, she had to content herself with quietly, carefully slinking through the crowds.

Lore was God-knew-where, doing God-knew-what, and she idly wondered if she'd ever see the android again. After they'd landed, he'd practically thrown her off the ship, following her down the ramp with a box tucked under his arm, and then he'd tapped in some inhumanly long passcode to lock up.

"So that's it?" she'd demanded, a little indignant, despite herself. "You're just dumping me here?"

"I never asked for you to come along," he said, equally indignant. "But you're a resourceful girl," he added, pointedly and maybe even resentfully. "I'm sure you'll figure something out." And then he'd walked off without a backwards glance.

It was early afternoon, and she was getting hungry. She'd pilfered a piece of fruit from a stand, but that hadn't done much except assuage some of her thirst. Dubatta was a hot, relatively dry place, and she'd been tempted to shed her jacket until she remembered the dried blood on the neckline of her undershirt. Which was another problem: She only had one set of clothes now, and already one garment had a suspicious bloodstain.

The barely-healed wound on her neck itched in the heat and stung with her sweat, and she cursed the android—not only for giving her the wound in the first place, but for not even allowing her to freshen up a little before kicking her off his ship. It was perhaps foolish to be angry at someone who could just as easily have killed her and been done with her, but she'd done her fair share of foolish things in the past, and didn't see how one more was going to make much of a difference. In her more introspective moments, she had begun to wonder if her life wasn't fated to be one bad decision after another.

Ishara sighed, checking to make sure her hair was still shielding the side of her neck from view. All introspection aside, she wanted a shower (or at least a damp cloth), a clean shirt, and a full meal.

Luckily, Lore had been right; she _was_ resourceful, and knew a good way to get all three.

 

\---

 

Two and a half hours later saw her walking back to the landing site.

She supposed it was curiosity that drove her there. Not that she suspected he would have waited around for her, but there was some part of her that needed to check, that needed to be sure he was out of her life once and for all. So it came as somewhat of a surprise to find the ship still there, and Lore sitting at the base of the ramp, legs splayed out and forearms propped on his bent knees.

He gave her a once-over with his eyes, cursorily taking in her new wardrobe, and with just the right amount of condescension, noted, "You came back."

She in turn pointed out, "You didn't leave."

His expression soured defensively. "The parts I need are more expensive than I had hoped," he explained. "And the seller's affiliated with the Orion Syndicate, so simply taking them would almost be more trouble than they're worth." Irritably, he ran a hand through his hair and looked off in the distance. Perhaps he thought if he ignored her, she'd simply go away.

Of course, there was another solution to his monetary problems: All he had to do was find some odd job and earn what he needed—it was almost a guarantee someone would want to make use of his skills, maybe even this Orion Syndicate. But, judging from what she'd seen, she suspected the only thing he found more unsavory than merely interacting with organics was actively working for them. If she didn't know better, she'd say he was sulking.

Well. She supposed she kind of owed him, anyway. He _hadn't_ asked her to come along, after all; she'd wormed her way into a free passage. And he _hadn't_ killed her, so that had to count for something, right?

Wordlessly, she reached into the inside of her jacket, pulled out a handful of credit chips and various denominations of latinum, and tossed them unceremoniously at his feet.

He blinked at them, and then sharply raised his eyes to her, suspicion written all over his face. "What's this for?"

She crossed her arms in front of her, looked off to the side, and shrugged uncomfortably. "You didn't have to take me with you."

"…No," he agreed. "I didn't."

For a moment, there was nothing but a pregnant silence. But then he reached down and picked up a strip of latinum. Thoughtfully, he regarded it, turning it over in the tips of his long, pale fingers. "Pray tell," he drawled, "how did you come by such a small fortune?"

She flexed her own hand demonstratively, deftly fanning the fingers. "I used to pick-pocket a lot as a kid," she explained shortly.

He smiled that slow, sly smile of his, then—the one that reminded her of a wolf from those fairytales of old, and again, she had to wonder if she wasn't doing something phenomenally stupid by not turning tail and running away as fast as she could. The little girl in red—hadn't one version ended with the wolf simply devouring her?

Ishara swallowed, heart beating hard. Lore grinned at her. "Maybe you aren't completely worthless, after all," he remarked.

And the rest, as they said, was history.

 

\---

 

"What do you need so much money for, anyway?"

Lore sat in the pilot's seat, legs stretched out to the side, ankles crossed, skimming the contents of a PADD, and didn't even afford her a spare glance. "There's something I want," was all he said, maddeningly vague.

Ishara sighed exasperatedly and slumped into the co-pilot's chair. It was later—she'd stripped off her dress, showered, and now sat with casual clothes and damp hair. They were en route to New Algiers, estimated arrival in five days, sixteen hours, twenty-three minutes. She sighed again and propped her head on her hand. At least she'd have a lot of money to spend once they finally arrived. Not that she'd become a spend-thrift exactly, in the months since leaving Turkana IV, but she'd found herself indulging in some odd purchases, some of them qualifying as 'expensive.' An antique book that she'd bought simply for the swirling gold pattern on the cover. The silk scarf she'd worn earlier in the evening. A teapot. Fanciful, beautiful things that she'd never had exposure to before, that she just liked to _touch,_ as if they could ground her in this new reality of hers. As if she was afraid this was all some surreal dream, and that they might turn into smoke and illusion if she didn't keep reassuring herself of their concreteness.

Sometimes, in the blackness between star systems, she found herself thinking about Hayne and the Coalition. Found herself wondering what kind of raids they were planning, what kind of skirmishes had broken out, if any more of her former comrades had died. If they ever wondered about _her_. If they maybe even missed her.

Doubtful. She didn't particularly miss them, after all. It was strange, how small and petty everything on Turkana IV now seemed. Not that she really thought she was doing something so much grander and more meaningful with her life now, but the galaxy was a big place. Far bigger than some failed, decrepit, backwater colony where everything had revolved around killing. And not that she hadn't had to do a little bit of that since leaving (the unfortunate incident in that Talavian bar came to mind), but at least she was doing it for herself these days. At least she was _living_ for herself these days. And maybe it wasn't much of a life, cavorting around with an arrogant, moody android, pulling off petty heists, but it was _hers_. It had been a long time since she'd been able to say that. Maybe she'd _never_ been able to say it.

She sighed wistfully at the myriad of stars. Lore threw a skeptical, sideways glance her way, but she paid it no mind. Five days, sixteen hours, four minutes.

 

\---

 

Lore came back singing.

It turned out that New Algiers wasn't nearly as interesting as the Earth city it had been named after, and after a disappointing dinner in one of the colony's restaurants, Ishara had decided to retire to the ship. Lore had since rigged up a device that allowed her to transport back on her own—though he still insisted on locking her out of the main computer when he wasn't around. Ishara wasn't particularly offended by this. Their relationship had never exactly been based on trust, and if they were truthful which each other, they stayed together mostly out of convenience—he had transportation, and she was better at blending into crowds, and it was, in general, a mutually beneficial arrangement, provided they kept socialization outside of jobs to an absolute minimum.

" 'Grab your coat and get your hat/Leave your worries on the doorstep/Life can be so sweet/On the sunny side of the street…' "

She'd just come from the shower, and was in the process of toweling her hair dry when he came all but dancing down the corridor. "I'm assuming you got what you wanted?" she dryly asked.

His grin was positively manic, porcelain-plated teeth flashing in his pale gold face. "Oh, yes." He had a small object clasped in the palm of his hand, and he tossed it up in the air, caught it with ease, and then proudly presented it between thumb and forefinger, looking every inch the proverbial cat who ate the canary.

Ishara, meanwhile, couldn't help but gape incredulously. "A _lime?"_ She'd stuffed herself into a dress, endured torturous footwear, and pretended to be interested in vorlap racing for a _lime?_ For a brief moment, she wondered if it was possible for androids to go daft.

Lore stiffened and planted a defensive hand on his hip. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to come by a lime out here?" he demanded.

She flung her arm out in the general direction of the mess. "This ship has a food replicator!"

"It's not the same," he sneered, like some fine connoisseur, and she was tempted to point out the irony of a synthetic being having a preference for traditionally grown produce, but it was at that point that he seemed to deem the conversation no longer worth his time, because he simply turned and headed for the kitchen. She stood in the corridor for a moment, still taken aback by the absurdity of the entire situation, and then found herself dropping the towel in her hand and stalking after him, not sure if she did so out of irritation or curiosity.

She'd never seen him eat, obviously didn't need to, and, judging by the disgusted looks he would throw her way whenever _she_ needed to, she had pretty much assumed he found the act too revoltingly organic to engage in, even if his body was somehow capable of processing food. But still, even if food _was_ something he indulged in every now and then—a _lime?_

When she entered the mess, he was in the process of quartering the fruit on the counter. (To her moderate relief, she noted that the knife he used was _not_ the same one he'd almost slit her throat with, way back when.) He opened one of the top storage compartments, pulled down two bottles—when had _those_ been put there?—and then went to the replicator and punched in a couple commands. A short glass of ice materialized on the shelf. Ishara looked from him, then back to the bottles, reading the labels with something akin to dumb-founded disbelief. Tonic water and gin—the old-fashioned, alcoholic variety.

The question tumbled out of her mouth before she could even think about it. "You _drink?"_

"I can't get drunk," he said, deigning to answer her, and she wondered if that was perhaps a trace of bitterness she heard in his voice. "I just like the taste." He poured a measure of gin into the glass, filled the rest with tonic water, squeezed in the juice from one of the lime wedges, gave it a swirl, stuck one of the remaining wedges on the lip of the glass, and then, suddenly, held it out to her. "Here," he said grudgingly. "I suppose you've earned it."

She blinked at his hand, freshly surprised, then took the proffered drink. Hesitantly, she took a sniff. Alcohol was nothing new to her. Back on the colony, people had used all sorts of substances to escape the pain of simply living, and even the cadre had operated their share of stills. 'Moonshine,' humans had once called it. Strong, harsh stuff that burned the back of a throat and numbed the senses. Occasionally one would come across a case of cheap whiskey or scotch, and once the Coalition even came by an old bottle of wine, but there had been very little in the way of fine liquor around. A little skeptically, she took a sip, and her eyebrows rose in honest surprise.

"This is really very good," she murmured. It was. Cool and refreshing, and not at all saccharine, as so many trendy cocktails seemed to be.

"It has its charm," he admitted at length, returning with another glass from the replicator. "Unfortunately a good gin is hard to come by, and a genuine lime is next to impossible."

She took another sip, letting it fizz thoughtfully on her tongue. The air in the room was strangely casual, perhaps the closest they'd yet come to friendly, and she suddenly decided to take advantage of it and ask him a question that had been plaguing her ever since that first day on Turkana IV:

"When did you meet my sister?"

He paused in his drink preparation to fix her with that unreadable expression of his, and she just as suddenly wished she had simply kept her mouth shut. She gripped her glass a little harder and forced herself to look steadily back. She hated how silly she felt, how silly he so often _made_ her feel, but valiantly plowed on. "When we first met, you mentioned a family resemblance"—she resisted the urge to swallow uncomfortably—"which means you must have met her at some point."

After an excruciating moment, he dropped his gaze and went back to mixing his drink. "…I was on the _Enterprise_ for a short time, a few years ago now," he finally relinquished. "My… _dear little brother_ had me reactivated after they discovered me disassembled on our home planet." He squeezed his lime wedge with particular vehemence, and the corner of his mouth twisted up sharply. "Guess I should thank him for _that,_ at least."

She supposed most people would have focused on the animosity he apparently felt toward his brother, but she didn't much like to think about strained relationships between siblings. Instead, her attention caught on one word in particular, and with a vague sort of curiosity, she asked, "You were disassembled?"

His head snapped over to her. Too quickly. "Don't get any ideas," he sneered, but underneath the harsh defense in his eyes, there was something else. Some deep-seated fear. Of being over-powered, of having control of his own body wrenched away from him, of being treated as a _thing,_ she knew. She knew because she'd worn that same look ever since she'd hit puberty. Ever since she'd become something sexual, and thus, an even bigger target on Turkana IV.

For a moment, a terrible wave of empathy washed over her.

She dropped her eyes to her glass, took another drink, and scoffed, trying to shake off the suddenly personal atmosphere in the room. "As if I'd know the first thing about taking apart an android." As if he'd ever give her the opportunity, even if she did.

He was still watching her, she could tell—but after a long moment, he, too, lowered his gaze to his glass, garnishing it with the last piece of fruit, scoffing back as if to agree with her. More disdainful humor, trying to distract from the fact that it really wasn't funny at all.

He took an indulgent drink, and she watched him out of the corner of her eye. How odd that he had an Adam's apple, and that it even bobbed up and down in his throat when he swallowed.

Really, he came off as far too human at times. Distractingly so. Distressingly so. She tore her eyes away and buried her face in her glass. The seconds ticked awkwardly by.

"You weren't very close to your sister," he eventually said. A statement, not a question.

She lowered her drink from her lips and shrugged noncommittally. "She left the colony when I was ten. I decided to stay. I don't much remember her."

He laughed at that, shortly, though she couldn't fathom why. "So why leave with me?"

She shrugged again, took a drink, and concentrated on the way it slid down her throat. "Just seemed like the right time. You saw what the colony was like."

He snorted derisively. "And shacking up with a machine who killed three of your comrades and held you hostage is somehow better?"

"It's different," she said, and she turned her head to look straight at him, wondering if perhaps the alcohol had gone to her head and loosened her tongue, making her momentarily more open and honest. "Sometimes that's enough."

He stared at her for a long moment, before looking away and taking an equally long drink of his gin and tonic.

 

\---

 

The Coalition had been different, too. Different from scraping for food and clothes, and huddling in some dark, dirty alcove, waiting for her sister to return.

"It's bad enough _I_ have to run out," she would say. "I can't afford to worry about you, too."

Had she been older, she might have seen the concern in her sister's eyes, but as it was, all she heard were the words: She was a burden. Her sister couldn't afford such a burden. She didn't want to be a burden, anyway. Didn't want to be left alone anymore, cold and frightened for hours, even days, on end.

The cadre had been welcoming, if not warm. They offered bread, and boots, and a place to sleep every night. All she'd had to do was pledge her loyalty and learn how to fire a phaser, learn how to kill someone, learn how to live for something larger than herself. It was a small price to pay for some semblance of safety and belonging.

Her sister hadn't approved.

"You know what those gangs are like!" she had shouted. "They're the whole reason this place is such a shit-hole! You're going to get yourself killed, Ishara!"

"Then I'll die!" she had shouted back, all thin shoulders and resentment.

It was perhaps ironic, then, that it was Tasha—Tasha, who had left the colony, who had gone clean and gone into a respectable career in Starfleet—who had wound up dead.

 

\---

 

The Rendezvous was a café on Grovin V. It was what one expected from a shuttle port restaurant—only half-decent drinks, half-decent food, and half-decent music—but Ishara wasn't there for the atmosphere or cuisine, anyway, so the quality of the establishment mattered little to her. Her raktajino didn't taste like sewer water, so she couldn't much complain.

She was there waiting for a man named Sh'Hai Lamandra. Lamandra was a Daliwakan who had, Lore had learned (in ways she didn't bother to ask about these days), just inherited a large sum of money, and was on his way to Regallus to claim it. His transport was due to board at 1340, local time, almost any minute now, and all she had to do was pass him by in the terminal, maybe even bump into him if necessary, and lift the appropriate data rod. Then Lore would work his magic on the account, and they'd be spending the money before Lamandra even knew it was gone.

It was a ridiculously simple job, really. Lamandra was a middle-aged family man, who made his living as a botanist. Unassuming and trusting, his profile seemed to indicate. He probably wouldn't even have the data rod tucked on the inside of his jacket. The only potential problem arose from the fact that a Federation vessel was also in orbit around the planet, apparently on shore leave of some sort. Lore had, for that reason alone, decided against beaming down.

"So just what would you do if I wasn't around, anyway?" she had wondered, because surely he had run into this problem before. Surely, prior to their partnership, he'd had to put in somewhere, only to discover a Federation ship was already docked there.

"I would wear the uniform I stole from my brother," he answered, with a blunt honesty that surprised her. "But even my dear little brother, sniveling Starfleet puppy he is, attracts a fair amount of attention by his very nature. By _our_ very nature," he corrected. "And it's not a risk I'm going to take if I don't have to. Now you can either step onto that transport pad, or I can throw you onto it."

He was such a charmer, really.

She checked the time. 1338. She wasn't quite jumpy, but she was… _anxious_ for some reason. Maybe it was the Starfleet personnel around. Or maybe it was just their uniforms. Maybe just the mustard yellow ones, specifically. Despite her best efforts, she had to admit that they were bringing back rather uncomfortable memories, and she kind of couldn't wait to get this over with. She took another sip of her raktajino, trying to let it calm her.

"Oh, wow, I love your blouse! Andorian, right?"

Ishara jumped, the voice pulling her from her tense reverie, and whipped her head around. A human girl stood off to the side, staring at her with obvious admiration. She looked maybe fifteen, with cropped blonde hair, and lanky limbs, and—

She mentally shook herself. "What?" she said, realizing she'd missed the question.

"Your blouse," the girl said, pointing at the garment. "It's Andorian, right?" So bright, so innocent, so—

She looked down at her shirt, almost dumbly. "Uh—yes," she stammered out. She'd bought it from a merchant, four ports ago now, because of the way it draped against her skin—

"Man, I _love_ their clothes. My mom says it's too expensive"—she waved dismissively toward an officer across the café, the black and cerulean of her uniform stark against the creams and browns of the decor—"but I'm totally saving my credits for a silk dress for my school's spring dance."

Too young, too carefree, too _similar_ —

The boarding call rang out across the PA system. Ishara shot to her feet, bumping the table and spilling her drink. _"Shit,"_ she cursed, a hiss under her breath, and she actually felt guilty about letting the obscenity slip. She tried to right the mug and clean up the spilled drink, but her hands were shaking, and she didn't have time for this, and _good God,_ the girl was helping her wipe up the mess— "No, please, don't—" Her head jerked up, her gaze darting out to the terminal, to the people filing towards the boarding gate, and as if on cue, Sh'Hai Lamandra walked by, suitcase in tow. Her head jerked back down to the girl next to her, to her concerned blue eyes, and maybe she didn't remember what Tasha looked like, but she remembered _enough,_ and—

"Are you alright?" the girl asked.

 _No. No, no, no._ "I—I have to go," she said, fumbling to push her chair in, already backing up. She looked back at Sh'Hai Lamandra, the man she was supposed to rob, as he disappeared from sight. And then she looked back down at the girl, her heart _aching_ so terribly, and the only thing she could say was, "I'm sorry," and for an instant, she wondered if she was really speaking to the girl in front of her at all.

She fled the café. Fled the terminal and ducked into a lavatory, because it was the first place she could think of that might afford her some privacy. Threw her back against a stall wall and put a hand to her head.

_Shit. Shit, shit, shit._

The job was botched, that was the pertinent fact. The job was botched, which meant there was no longer any reason for her to stick around, which was just as well because at that moment all she wanted to do was _get out_. Lore be damned; he could hunt Lamandra down and steal the data rod himself if he really wanted the money that badly.

He was waiting for her upon her rematerialization, and it was all she could do to avert her eyes and make a bee-line for her cabin. "I don't have it," was all she said, curtly brushing by him, hoping, _praying,_ that he would just leave her be. She wasn't so lucky, and almost immediately she heard him start to follow her down the corridor, boot-heels echoing hard against the floor.

"What do you mean you don't have it?" he demanded.

"I mean I screwed up! I don't have it! Leave me alone." She threw the words over her shoulder like some scrap of meat, and her pace quickened, but it was no use. He kept right behind her, like some puppy at her heels, but that wasn't right now was it, because _Data_ was the puppy, _Data,_ who she'd used and betrayed, _Data,_ who'd seen bits of Tasha in her, and _Tasha,_ who was—

"You expect me to—" he started to say, his hand grabbing her arm, and that was enough. Because his voice was so close, _too_ close—to her ear, and to his brother, and to a thousand other things she didn't want to think about, and before he could turn her around, she whirled on him of her own accord, defenses instinctively flaring, hands instinctively shoving, though whether she was trying to push him or her own thoughts away, she wasn't sure:

"I _said_ leave me alone!"

It happened too quickly for her to follow. But some fraction of a second later, she found herself pinned against the wall, his hand around her neck, and his eyes snapping yellow fire. "I've tolerated you until now because you're useful to me. But rest assured—I don't _need_ you," he hissed, low and close, and she was suddenly reminded of that first day they met on Turkana IV. Suddenly remembered just how unpredictable and dangerous he could be. How unpredictable and dangerous he _was_.

_My, Grandmother, what sharp teeth you have…_

Her pulse thrummed against his palm, and she stared at him, wide-eyed. His hand felt quite literally like a vise around her neck, and he was pressed flush against her, his body heavy and dense and hindering any movement—and it seemed as if the intimacy of the situation suddenly dawned on him then. His glare faltered, and his eyes flicked between hers, then down to her parted lips. His brows twitched towards each other, and his hand slowly relaxed around her neck, his thumb contemplatively stroking the hollow of her throat, the line of her jaw, her chin—and then he tilted her head up, and let his mouth descend on hers.

It was longer than their previous kisses. Deeper, and more intense, and she would have been lying if she said she didn't lean into it, just a little. A part of her _knew_ it was stupid, self-destructive, suicidal even—because he was a murderer, a machine, a madman—but she couldn't help it. She was all ghosts and regret, and for everything else he might have been, he was so firm, so warm, so _there,_ and she wanted to lose herself in his solidity.

When he finally broke away, she felt flushed and light-headed. Her heart was hammering in her chest, and, almost gently, he trailed his fingertips along her cheek.

"Are you afraid of me, Ishara?" It was perhaps the first time he had ever called her by name, and a part of her wanted to think there was maybe something important about that, but it was difficult to concentrate. As it was, she could barely register the question, and had no idea how to answer it. Yes? No? Neither was completely true, and at the same time, neither was completely false.

"…I don't know," she finally said.

The puff of a laugh brushed over her cheek. It seemed at once satisfied, bitter, and maybe even a little sad, and she shivered at the feel of it. Her hand involuntarily curled around his shoulder. And if she had, up until that point, been teetering on the edge of some great precipice, it was at that moment that she closed her eyes and threw herself into the black chasm below.

"Kiss me again," she whispered.

And with a surprising passion, he did.

It escalated quickly. She moaned when his tongue slipped into her mouth, and arched when his teeth sunk into her neck, and her fingers scrabbled at his torso, tugging his shirt free, because she needed—she needed—it had been so long and she needed—

He ripped her blouse clean open. She gasped, and then his lips were on her breast, and her fingers were in his hair, holding his head there. One hand groped for the waist of his pants, tugging his hips closer. "Please," she rasped, a desperate entreaty. "Please."

Somehow her boots came off. And her trousers as well. And then he hoisted her against the wall and buried himself in her, and the sensation was so exquisite she actually cried out in ecstasy.

He wasn't gentle. He was hard and relentless and exactly what she wanted, and she clamped her legs around his waist, and dug her fingers into his arms, and screamed into his shoulder until her voice was hoarse, until everything burned away, and all that was left was the white-hot feel of him, driving into her. And then with one final, savage, inhuman thrust, it was over.

Time restarted.

She was clinging to him, gasping raggedly in an attempt to catch her breath, her heart-beat echoing hard and fast in her ears. After a long moment, she opened her eyes, catching sight of her clothes strewn about the corridor—and it was then that the awkwardness of the entire situation began to set in: She was naked, propped up against the wall, and had just had sex with an android. An android who, just moments before, had been on the verge of choking the life out of her.

 _Stupid,_ she berated herself. _So stupid._

He didn't set her down. Didn't even pull out of her, and instead just stood there, hands splayed out against the backs of her thighs, holding her effortlessly aloft, and so, it was with some trepidation that she finally lifted her head from his shoulder to look at him.

His hair was mussed, and his pupils were maybe a little dilated, and he just blinked at her with that look on his face—the same look he'd worn after she'd kissed him that first time, back on Turkana IV. Oddly contemplative and a bit off-guard. Innocent, she almost wanted to say, and a thought suddenly occurred to her.

"That was your first time, wasn't it?" Her voice sounded foreign to her, breaking the silence as it did, still hushed and breathless. His eyebrows twitched toward each other, and she swallowed before she clarified, "Having sex, I mean."

He cocked his head curiously. "You could tell?"

"Well…not from technique," she admitted, flushing anew, despite herself.

He laughed then—a little arrogantly, a little bitterly—and didn't take his eyes from hers. "Sexuality programming. I'm inclined to think my father was something of a dirty old man."

She blinked. " 'Father'?"

"Creator. Whatever you want to call him."

"Oh."

Suddenly, he set her down. Her legs wobbled, the muscles still unsteady, and she put a hand against the wall for balance. A bit self-consciously, she tucked her hair behind her ear. Lore had refastened his pants, but made no move to collect his shirt from the floor, and was instead just staring at her. Trying her best to ignore him, counting the seconds until she could flee— _finally_ —to her cabin, she ducked her head and picked up the remains of her shirt. She'd worry about getting it repaired later—or hell, maybe she'd just get rid of it. It had been through enough, after all, and there were plenty more Andorian blouses out there.

"You were saying?" he prompted.

"Huh?" She straightened and looked at him.

"About how you could tell it was my first time."

Right. "Oh. Ah—you always struck me as someone who considered sex beneath him, that's all. Too organic." Discussing the loss of an android's virginity was weird enough without being naked while doing so, and she bent back down to retrieve her pants. Just her boots left, and she was home free. Or the closest-she-had-to-a-home free.

"It is," Lore admitted. "And I do, usually." His voice had taken on a strange, distant quality, and at the confession, she couldn't help but turn around to look at him—his yellow eyes and opalescent skin, so alien despite all that was so human about him.

"So why now?" she demanded, gripping her clothes tensely in front of her. "Why me?"

"Maybe I just wanted something different."

 

\---

 

It was after _that_ that they became lovers.

It wasn't that she'd planned it that way—it just sort of happened. Perhaps it was an effect of being isolated on a ship together for long intervals at a time. Perhaps it was because the tension had already been broken. Perhaps he really did have something resembling a sex drive, and needed the release just as much as she did. Whatever the reason, it didn't remain as a one-off mistake, instead becoming a five-off mistake, then a ten-off mistake, until she finally admitted that, mistake or no, it was officially a habit. She suspected it might have even begun to dip into addiction territory, but she couldn't bring herself to stop. Not when he put that programming of his to use and made her toes curl, and her vision go white, and her body explode with a pleasure so acute it bordered on pain.

Despite all his various techniques, however, he had an odd quirk about him when it came to sex: Never did he pin her arms or legs down. And not for lack of wanting to be the dominant partner in bed, either, because he clearly did, and clearly was. He seemed to particularly enjoy it whenever she begged and screamed, and so the lack of willingness to physically restrain her struck her as odd. It had been a part of sex with plenty other men she'd been with, after all—men who'd similarly seen the activity as a conquest to be won, and got off on being the one in control. But Lore, for all that her helpless squirming made him smirk, never even bothered to pin her wrists above her head, and after a while, she began to suspect that maybe it was because he _liked_ the way her hands clutched at his shoulders and urged his hips faster.

 

\---

 

It was after the seventh orgasm (seventh?—eighth?—she'd lost count) of this particular session that her body collapsed into a trembling mess and her arms desperately pushed at his chest. "I can't," she gasped, trying to fend off any more attention. "I can't."

In what was perhaps a moment of sheer kindness, Lore stopped moving and looked down at her. "You're pathetic, you know that." His vocal modulation was as even as ever, and she suspected he kept it that way on purpose, just to flaunt the fact that he didn't have lungs and couldn't get breathless. She opened her eyes and gave him an exhausted glare.

"And you're an ass," she shot back.

He grinned sharply at that, finding it pleasing for some reason she couldn't fathom, and moved his lips right against her ear. "Say it again," he whispered, and shifted inside her in such a way that her nails dug helplessly into his skin.

"Ass," she ground out, at once obedient and defiant. He reached down between them, long, strong fingers beginning to stroke a melody to the rhythm of his hips, and she threw her head back as another wave started to roll over her. She half-heartedly pounded a fist against his arm, once, twice, but then gave up and simply grabbed it as a brace. "Ass, ass, oh Go- _hod,_ you're an ass!"

 

\---

 

It was entirely by accident that she managed to confirm her suspicion.

It happened in an instant. One moment she was trying to find some purchase on his back, her fingers digging in blindly, mindlessly, and the next moment he had her arms pinned at the sides of her head, his hands gripping her wrists so hard she honestly thought he'd break them. She gasped in pain, her eyes flying open, his face above her a perfect mixture of all-consuming rage and all-consuming fear, and the only thing she could think to say was, "I'm sorry." Hushed and desperate and pleading.

After a short moment—that lasted a lifetime—he shoved himself off of her, rolling away in one quick movement. He pointedly propped his back against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. His expression had turned stony.

Ishara blinked, still reeling from the initial shift in mood, and carefully sat up, turning cautious, puzzled eyes on him. He was looking just about everywhere but at her, seemingly engaged in some internal struggle, and when he finally _did_ speak, the words came out grudgingly. Maybe even a little fearfully.

"My off switch is back there," was all he said, his voice cold and curt.

_Oh._

She took a moment to let that sink in. He had an _off switch_. Like any machine did, but it was so hard to think of him as _just_ a machine. She let her eyes wander, around the tiny room and the shelves now full of trinkets, around the cabin that had become _hers,_ despite the anti-social android next to her, despite the fact that he could have killed her, could have kicked her out, could never have even taken her with him in the first place, and suddenly she needed to know:

"Why do you let me stay here?"

For a moment, he said nothing—and then in a flash, he bounded out of the cot and began pacing. Back and forth, back and forth, across the small floor-space, like some caged animal. He ran a hand through his hair, the action somehow serving to only dishevel it more, and then suddenly slammed the heel of it into the wall. A sizeable dent was left in its wake, and he finally whirled around to face her.

"Because you're the first person to treat me like a person, alright?" It came out as a shout, harsh and ragged around the edges. Pained. "Even my old man couldn't do that!"

And suddenly, it dawned on her: His creator had been the one who had disassembled him. The man who'd built him, who he'd regarded as a father, had taken him apart and left him to rot.

Lore raked his hand through his hair again, actually managing to brush some of it back into place this time around, and resumed his pacing. Ishara watched him, his lean body, all pale gold bioplast and synthetic sinew. Alien. Unnatural.

Slowly, carefully, she slid off the mattress. "Lore," she said. The first time she had called him by name, and he spun around, eyes wild and wary. She walked over to him, and then slowly, carefully reached up, took his face in her hands, and pressed a gentle, genuine kiss to his cheek.

His hands convulsed on her hips. She'd have bruises there tomorrow, from where his fingers were so desperately clinging to her, but she couldn't be bothered. She folded her arms around his neck, tenderly ran her fingertips through the back of his hair, and drowned.

 

\---

 

"So does this mean you're going to get jealous if I have to kiss another man?"

She was dressed up for another job, trying to secure a necklace around her throat, and fumbling the clasp miserably. Lore came up behind her, took the ends from her hands, and did her the favor of fastening it. Musingly, he smoothed the chain out over her skin, slowly stroked her collarbone, and then wrapped his fingers around her neck, squeezing just enough for the action to be construed as possessive. Her pulse spiked with perverse excitement, and he smirked, lips brushing the back of her ear.

"I guess you'll just have to wait and see," he said, and she swore he tasted like death.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Can I just say, "Oh, Ishara"? Because OH, ISHARA. ;_; Girlfriend, you are so messed up (but I love you so much for it).
> 
> I was originally hoping to keep the rating of this T, to match the rating of Built Upon Sand, but the sex ended up being too plot relevant to cut. To say nothing of the darker subject matter, overall. So…oops? All that said, though, I hope it was an enjoyable follow-up.
> 
> I guess this officially qualifies as an AU* now, because it pretty much implies the events of "Descent" would never happen. But I rather like to pretend that the events of "Descent" never happened, anyway, so. (I don't know, I guess it's just that in "Brothers," Lore comes off as this surly adolescent who just wants to be left the fuck alone—at least until Soong is all, "Look at this awesome emotion chip I made for your brother!" and sibling rivalry rears its ugly head again (Soong, you _really_ need to get better at this whole parenting thing)—and then that's somehow supposed to translate into Super Villain Syndrome? I guess you could argue the emotion chip is doing weird things to his system, but it always struck me as rather OOC and, moreover, a disservice to the character. "Brothers" made him so delightfully complex, and then "Descent" came along, and it's just like, nope—back to being evil!)
> 
> So…yeah. Apologies for the character rant—it's just that Lore gives me a lot of feels. Ishara, too, now. Characters can sometimes take on a life of their own in the writing process, you know, and she definitely did. I was honestly surprised by how tragic and self-destructive she turned out.
> 
> * Probably, at least. I mean, it could always happen that Lore eventually kills Ishara, or else really _does_ dump her on some planet, or they otherwise part ways. But I'd prefer to believe that they continue their unhealthy, abusive, co-dependent relationship, pfft.


End file.
